


Observations in Three Steps

by blackidyll



Series: Traceability [4]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Developing Relationship, Gift Giving, M/M, Mission Fic, POV Alternating, Slow Build, Sparring, and in between missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-09 01:07:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackidyll/pseuds/blackidyll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Instead of deadly neutral, Bond's voice had been contemplative, and it suddenly clicks in place, what the questions – the baiting – are about. Q's interpretation is slightly off.  Bond is on assignment, no doubt about that, but for the purposes of this phone call, Q is the mission. </p><p>Q smiles, and goes straight for the kill. "You're testing my limits." </p><p>"Ah." And Q can almost hear Bond's answering smile in the slight drawl he infuses into his reply. "Not your limits, no." </p><p> </p><p>Three conversations, three interactions, and the ways relationships deepen with small moments of contact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Observations in Three Steps

**Author's Note:**

> This one was supposed to be a bit of an interlude as well as an exercise in writing other Bond characters. 
> 
> Ten thousand words later...

**one**

James has the man spread out on the bed before him, hands restrained with his own leather belt. His name is Tomas Novak, but that’s the least important part of the mental file James has on him – names are too intimate for what’s supposed to be rough and dirty sex, and that’s not what Novak wants from him.

James never betrays what he wants from the lovers he takes while on assignment, but it’s not intimacy, either.

He keeps his touches just on this side of rough, his body caging Novak, bruising Novak’s collarbones with his teeth. Novak’s not very vocal but they are by no means quiet, not with the creaking of the bed and aborted moans and harsh breathing filling the air, and yet James hears the distinct click at his ear.

There's only one person who is authorized to turn on his earpiece remotely, and his partner lets out a low, involuntary hiss of pleasure and a cut-off swearword just as Q's voice comes on the line.

"007," Q begins, and then there's a heavy, pregnant silence as the audio feed obviously registers back at Q Branch.

James reaches up, slicking his hair back and running a hand casually over his ear, clicking the earpiece twice in acknowledgment. The earpiece, encased in sleek black metal, masquerades as an earcuff, a design modification stemming from how many times James has dropped his earpieces in champagne glasses rather than to risk identification through the wearing of them.

“All right,” Q says after an odd five second pause, the total absence of sound a telltale sign he’d muted his microphone during the interval. “I imagine coherent verbal communication is rather difficult at this point, so—Westler has just passed the last waypoint; you are clear to enter the tower. I’m observing the tower’s systems—the security team changes shifts at 23:55. There is a small fifteen minute window of opportunity at 00:15, when the network goes offline for the daily refresh cycle. The software I gave you should deploy in under ten minutes, but we will stay online to monitor the data as it uploads and to assist if any technical issues occur. Whatever you’re doing, 007, wrap it up now _._ ”

James almost smiles against the jut of Novak’s hip, where he’d turned his attention and his teeth to as a distraction. So the entire observation lab at Q Branch had been listening in. Q’s use of the mute button makes sense now.

The only reason this operation merits both a Double-O and Q Branch’s involvement is due to the magnitude of the information involved – the implantation of entire databases of false leads and codes, carefully designed to obscure the true reports agents across this region will send. Embedding the information from within an intelligence-gathering firm would reduce the chance of detection.

“Bond,” Q’s voice comes back on the line, and there’s an edge to his calm tone now, like he’s hovering on the brink of annoyance but is willing to give James a chance to explain himself. “You did retrieve Westler’s access card before he left the premises, didn’t you?”

In absence of any response – verbal or physical – he can make, James moves up, pinning Novak’s wrists to the bed.

It’s been a while since he’s bedded men, but the underlying theory never changes. Male or female, James knows how to seek out the points on a body wired for pleasure, knows how to lure out the cerebral wants that his bed partners harbour.  

“Lubrication, condom?” he murmurs, and bites down on the shell of Novak’s ear, teeth nipping.

“Wallet,” Novak says after a moment, his English accented but coherent, and James is going to have to do something about that if this continues; the man is far too alert for the state he should be in. “As for the other, you’ll have to make do with what you find.”

James allows his lips to curl in a smile and is off the bed in a flash, flipping the man over so he’s pressed face down on the bed. It’s quick and powerful and almost elegant in its brevity of movement; it’s this confident efficiency that drew Novak to him in the first place.

“Stay.”

Novak surges to his knees, tossing his head back defiantly, eyes dark with lust and James shoves him back down onto the mattress by a hand to the back of his neck, holding him down with a careful but firm grip.

“I can do this all night,” James says conversationally, letting a growl enter his voice. “But if you exercise a little patience now, you’ll get the chance to turn the tables later.”

And that’s it, that’s the trigger. Novak resists for one moment, pushing up against James’ hold before abruptly relaxing and settling back on the bed. James watches him for any indication this might be another bluff, but no – so James pads to their discarded suit jackets, palming Novak’s phone out of sight, but openly checking the wallet to complete the charade.

The wallet is nondescript and simply carries cash – no cards, no identification – although the pockets hold mostly business cards, for the night’s function. There’s the thin foil packet, but more importantly there’s the metallic keycard tucked discreetly in a side pocket, bearing the company’s seal on one side, a smaller division-logo at one corner of the other, and James tucks it quickly into his breast pocket even as he heads into the bathroom, quietly snagging his carrier bag as he goes.   

Dumping his kit on the marble countertop, James makes a quick survey of his surroundings. The door is of heavy wood and solidly built, the facilities spacious. There’s a large window of frosted glass high up, facing the bathtub - in daylight the room would be well-lit with natural light - and it’s easy enough for James escape through, if he has to.

Arousal still curls hot and electric through his veins, but it’s hardly any harder to handle than the adrenaline high of a fire fight, and Jame touches two fingers to his earpiece.

"Q.”

“Status, 007.”

James removes the sim card from Novak’s phone and slots it into his own, letting the decryption program override the password protection. “Clear. You can pull the surveillance on Westler.”

There’s a momentary pause as Q turns that over in his head, putting the pieces together, then— “Got what you engaged your companion for?"  

Scrolling through Novak’s text messages and folders only confirms what James already guessed. "It's either get the keycard from Westler’s lover who also works at the firm, or I engage the man himself and his nice coterie of bodyguards for his copy."

“Or you could have retrieved it during the evening’s function as we planned. How sure are you that the copy works just as well as the master card?” Q asks, sharp as always. “I wouldn’t place much faith on anything a former lover possesses.”

"Current lover,” James corrects, “with professional access to the system and less professional access to Westler’s office. Tomas Novak worked just as hard to pioneer the system, and yet here Westler is, gladding about the city while Novak is relegated to the sidelines at every function, and it’s both a professional and personal slight. He was angry, in the mood to show up his partner, and he wanted someone anonymous and foreign, an exploit he can use as ammunition. He’s intelligent so he wants intelligence, not paid professionals or common conquests, and jealousy and resentment are commanding catalysts. It wasn’t hard to tempt him into a liaison."

James glances at his watch; he has perhaps two minutes before anticipation turns to suspicion out in the bedroom. Turning on the tap in the sink pushes that up to about five minutes, and James adjusts the volume on his earpiece up a notch even as he begins rearranging his kit, putting on his holsters and slotting his guns back in them and double-checking that Q’s specialized laptop and all the cables are still in their carry-bag.

“Where are you, exactly?”

“The Excelsior. Room 306.”

“How conveniently located. You have half an hour before the security team changes at the tower. Get going.”

James contemplates the contents of his medical kit. Generally field agents are outfitted with non-drowsy medication, but he does have analgesics strong enough to knock someone out for a few hours. “No.”

“I’m going to call room service for your erstwhile companion and temporarily block calls from that section of the hotel. And I’ll disable your credit card payment if I have to. It’ll take him hours to sort it out. Do keep up, 007, and take his phone and wallet with you when you go.”

Oh, how curious.

Over the years, James has catalogued three typical reactions to his trysts. One – disapproval, sometimes expressed vocally, and most often through stilted tones. Two – voyeuristic fascination, usually identified by the way the handler hangs on the line long after they’ve carried out their jobs. And three – strict professionalism, either because the person in question keeps their opinions offline and separate from work or, more rarely, because they truly understand the concept of _by any means necessary_. 

The first two invariably turn to an uncomfortable disbelief at how quickly James can switch from lover to cold-blooded agent, while the professional ones simply continue being professional. But James has never had a handler offer to help him abandon a mark before.

“You’ve reduced me to a common con artist.” James already has his jacket on and he shoulders the bag, going up the counter to pop the window open.

“It’s better than him suspecting you’ve taken his access card to break into the tower’s systems. This needs to be seamless, Bond—no explosions, no shootouts, no traces. You were never there.”

“Stop telling me how to do my job.”

“Stop stalling and get to it.”

James smirks, and exits out the window.

 

* * *

 

Q calls room service – routing the signal through the hotel’s phone lines – and drops the entire matter of blocking the hotel’s calls in his team’s hands, if only to remind them that the main observation lab is not a gossip lounge. He keeps his eyes focused on a point exactly halfway across the room - it makes him look contemplative to everyone else when he's simply letting his mind blank out for a while.

"And so accounts of 007's exploits will make their rounds in the rumour mill again," Riley murmurs from beside him and Q pulls his thoughts back, toggling the mute on his microphone.

"There is no 'again' if the rumours have never stopped." Q turns to watch his team, and everyone seems to hunker down a little bit more now that his attention has shifted back towards them. He has an earpiece tucked in his ear in addition to the general audio in the lab, and the occasional background sounds of Bond moving is reassuring, if nothing else. “Does this happen frequently?” he asks, clearing the Excelsior’s number and switching his phone back to his personal registry.

“Dropping in on 007 during one of his encounters?” Riley keeps his eyes trained on his laptop, reading the reports from the rest of the team. “It’s bound to happen, statistically.”

Hearing about Bond’s reputation and confronting the reality of it - on a live line, no less - are separate issues. Q taps two fingers idly against his keyboard and thinks of the subtle and destructive ways the Double-Os go about their days. Seducing a target for information is the oldest gambit in the book and it’s certainly a step up from storming a stronghold with guns blazing – the last resort, in Q’s opinion, and one the agents employ on too far a regular basis for Q’s peace of mind.

He can cut through red tape for them with far greater ease and discretion, after all; he didn’t spend more than half his life immersing himself in the world of technology to sit pointlessly behind a monitor.

“I might redesign his kit,” Q says absentmindedly, tracking the time. Bond will be breaking into the tower now, even though there’s now barely a whisper of sound over the earpiece to betray his progress; in another six to eight minutes, he should arrive at the all-access terminal in Westler’s office. “The earpiece is a start; he kept it on.”

“His kit, Q?”

It’s not quite the level of Riley sir-ing at him, but there’s a definite inquiring tone in the way his second says his name that is not tied at all to the question he voices aloud.

Q glances away from his laptop. “I mean,” he says slowly, because the best way to interact with Riley is to be direct and very much in control of his own thoughts; his second can and will spin the ill-prepared in wide logical circles until their arguments fall apart, “the Double-Os do whatever it takes to complete the mission. The least I can do is make sure they don’t get killed doing it. So – weapons and equipment that are more easily concealed or accessible. And I’ll do it of my own initiative,” Q adds dryly, “because Bond will prefer to disable a target with his bare hands than to imply he’s vulnerable when sleeping with a target, and he certainly won’t call in if he’s injured during the course of it.”

Riley is the calm, steady presence to Q’s single-minded tenacity and ingenuity, but he’s definitely spotting a shadow of a smile. 

“You’re likely correct. 007 has always been one of our most independent and detached agents." Riley catches Q’s gaze and holds it for a long moment, then turns back to his own screen. “He responds to you, however.”

As if on cue, Bond's voice sweeps back on the line. "I’m in. That was more anticlimactic than I expected. I’m accessing the terminal now.”

Q’s attention snaps back to the operation, and he unmutes his microphone. “You’ll need to disable their firewall just before you run the program,” he tells Bond. “It will simulate the processes even as it uploads our databases. Check your timing, or their security systems will detect the firewalls going down.”

“Did I just return from a mission to be plunged into another mission?” A voice cuts through the din of the lab, and both Q and Riley turn towards the lab’s entrance, where 0011 is standing with an attaché case tucked under one arm.

Q is about to gesture 0011 over – work-wise it’s either a placid flood or an absolutely violent tidal wave at Q Branch, he thinks wryly, so of course his agents will all turn up to check in right at this very moment – when Riley stands, flicking his head pointedly towards his own workstation across the room and muting Q’s microphone at the same time. 

“Bond is notorious for one-way communication; either his handlers end up passing instructions or guidelines into a black hole, or he throws information at us and immediately logs off without a trace,” Riley says. "Not every quartermaster is capable of handling Double-O agents."

“You handle them well enough,” Q points out, because 0011 might be glancing at the data on the monitors, but he’s certainly making his way towards Riley’s station.

Riley lifts his hand and steps away. “Yes, but not every quartermaster is capable of partnering them, either.” He nods at Q’s laptop. “I’ll process 0011’s equipment.”

“Q,” Bond’s voice sounds over the line. “Stop muting your microphone, the lack of sound is distracting.”

“I didn’t realize your powers of attention are so minimal, 007,” Q replies, his mind on auto-pilot, and then he shakes himself mentally.

No distractions during a field operation, Q reminds himself, not when his second is more than up capable of dealing with any other Double-O to turn up on the scene, and focuses on his laptop and Bond’s voice.

 

 **two**  

It's several hours past the end of the conventional work day, but it's nearing the end of the fiscal year and even MI6 has to file its share of administrative paperwork, so Eve is still hard at it, her dark head bent over an impressive array of folders, papers and documents far too sensitive for most at Accounts or Human Resources to handle.

James slides into the room on silent feet, a test, and Eve's voice immediately rings out, although she keeps her eyes on the form in her hand.

"Yes, I know you're there. I haven't lost all my field senses."

The smile steals across his lips, quick and fleeting; James shifts back to his usual long stride, watching as she signs off the form and files it in one quick continuous motion.

His and Eve's relationship is an odd, ever-changing one; today, James leans over her desk to press a kiss to her cheek, and Eve betrays her fondness for him by letting him get away with it, although she'd once calmly grinded the pointed heel of her stiletto into his foot for the same act. 

Granted, he'd kiss her in front of M that time, so.

"In a terribly good mood, aren't you?" Eve says, with an amused tilt to her usual cat-like smile.

"0011 tells me I'm the rumour mill's top story this month."

"Oh?"

"Something about my previously undisclosed inclination towards members of both sex as opposed to merely playing on one side of the fence. Shocking, I know."  

She arcs an eyebrow at him. "Well, half the organization has discovered they're not as safe from your charms as they expected, while the other half has discovered they have twice as many rivalries to consider. And the rest of us - small percentage that we are - just sit back and try to work through the chaos."

"Your disinterest wounds me. We would have made a deadly couple," James says in mock-dismay, bracing one hip against the edge of her desk, carefully out of retaliatory reach.

"I have your respect and your regard - that's far more exclusive." Eve shifts a stack of folders to the other side of her desk, away from James’ quick eyes and his quicker fingers. "That particular story broke like wildfire. What did you do - proposition someone in the lobby?"

"Might have been with a mark when Q came on the line," James admits. "I believe Q Branch employs an open audio line for assignments that require an entire team's cooperation."

Eve sighs at him, a quiet sound under her breath, although there’s a thread of amusement in her words. "And so Q joins the list of people entirely caught up in your antics."

“All part and parcel of the job,” James says, and does not clarify whether he refers to his or Q’s. He means a bit of both, at any rate.

Eve has to lift her head to meet his gaze. “What brings you here so early? We’re not leaving until nine.”

He admires the easy way she stands firm in face of his scrutiny, perched gracefully in her seat like a bird tucked up warm and regal on a high-up branch, not at all defensive, and allows some of regard to filter into his voice. “I’ve been engaged to escort a lovely lady to a rendezvous with M. I’m merely extending the more pleasurable part of that briefing.”

Eve smiles coquettishly, well-used to the familiar lines of this game. “Enjoy the view all you want, but you’ll tell me soon enough,” she tells him, and turns back to her paperwork.

James does take a few minutes to watch her, terribly comfortable in watchful silence, then peers at the accounts she’s reading through. She ghosts the tip of her fountain pen just above the paper to keep her place and James discovers the reason she reads them so openly in front of him – they’re records tied to the Double-Os, although they’re hardly called that on paper. He slips a page out from the stack under Eve’s hands, and that one is an equipments budget, so heavily encoded that James barely identifies it as such.

“Budgets for Q Branch prototypes,” Eve offers, glancing up at him briefly, then captures his wrist to take the sheet back, setting it beside a complementary sheet that bears the proper numbers and titles and materials, for Eve to crosscheck and match. “Q and his team prepare these. Once I clear them they can go back to Accounts where they can process it properly, and no one will know better.”

“Tedious.”

“But necessary.”

“So, Q,” James says, casually storming in where most would fear to tread, but Eve has seen him in – what was for him – mourning, at the very peak of good health and myriad other scenarios in between, and so breaking his silence in face of gaining more information doesn’t come at too costly a price.

“Yes, what about Q?”

“You tell me.”

 Eve’s head comes up, her eyes narrowing after the moment of surprise. “Have we perhaps arrived at what you’ve come to my office so early for?”

James allows his lips to curl into a smirk. “I did learn from you that he doesn’t fly.”  

Deliberately setting her forms to one side, Eve taps her fountain pen thoughtfully against one cheek. “What would you like to know?” 

James’ shrug simply says _try me_ , and Eve puffs out her cheeks briefly, an unconscious and rather endearing habit she falls into when she’s comfortable and capable of forgetting herself. As if to make up for that display, she flicks out a delicate and deadly looking letter-opener, slipping the sharp tip into the corner of a sealed letter to slice one side open.

"I know him mostly on a professional level. He's very brilliant at what he does, from what I’ve seen and what I’ve heard from the other department leads. You’ve certainly experienced what he can do with a keyboard at hand. He keeps Q Branch on a tight leash, and he doesn't let social pressures cloud his judgment." Eve’s smile at this is grim and satisfied at the same time; she’s jumped through enough hurdles before making it onto a team professional enough to work with the notoriously picky Double-Os. “I didn’t know he’s the quartermaster when I first met him, actually. Treat him well, James."

It’s hardly the concise profile agents are trained to gather and report but it’s just the type of description Eve would give on a colleague she respected, her regard expressed in the words she chooses. Her last statement throws James off slight, however, and he studies her expression and her body language, trying to read her meaning.

“He’s hardly a civilian to be coddled. The fact that he took the position at all says plenty.”

It's pointless for M or anyone else to appoint a quartermaster - or rather, they _could_ appoint someone to the position, but if Q Branch decided they didn't trust whoever it was, God have mercy on the poor soul. In fact, Q Branch had ran on a committee basis for a long while after the last quartermaster's unfortunate retirement, different personnel testing out the command role with Riley acting as both referee and careful watchdog, having turned down the position himself. It had been a seamless, systematic process with so little visible impact outside of Q Branch that James had almost forgotten they didn't have a true quartermaster. 

So he'd been a little surprised when the scruffy-headed young man with a glib tongue sat down next to him and calmly disclosed his identity. "I'm your new Quartermaster," he'd said, and that possessive pronoun had been filled with all sorts of intentions, not least of all the fact that Q clearly gave himself entirely to his position and to his agents.

His calm but biting retort to James’ attack on his youth had been wonderfully refreshing for a change.

"Well, he's young.” Eve removes the letter – handwritten, with strong, bold strokes – and files it in a separate drawer, something to occupy her hands with. “He took the position during your extended leave of absence—"

"When I was dead, you mean," James cuts in.

Eve continues right along. "—and he obviously thrives in the role, but it's an isolating one. An elite, in a one-of-a-kind position."

She looks up at him and her smile is a little sad, although her eyes are clear and unforgivingly candid. "Sounds familiar, doesn't it?" she says softly.

Returning her letter-opener to its case, Eve shoots him a teasing glance, as if she'd shelved the seriousness of the situation with her weapons and her letters. "Well, except that Q is polite and efficient, and you lot just give us migraines instead."

James makes a low, noncommittal noise in his throat – he’s long learned that Eve appreciates signs that he’s heard her – and turns the thought around in his head. It’s nothing he isn’t already aware of, at least subconsciously, so just what is it about Q that makes him tune in to his earpiece with an attentiveness he’s never show any other handler, on the rare instances when he would even have them?

“Oh.” There’s a knowing ring in that single syllable, although Eve’s expression is neutral when he steals a look at her. “I recognize that look - you've found something that fascinates you."

“Do I? What do I look like when I’m fascinated?”

Crooking a finger in a gesture for James to lean over, Eve reaches up and brushes a fingertip lightly against James’ forehead, right between and above the eyes. James refuses to let his eyes cross, and stares beyond her hand to her face.

“You actually show that you’re interested, for one,” she says. “There are genuine emotions right here, even if you hide them well enough.”

James reaches up to take Eve’s hand, keeping it lightly caught in his clasp, thumb brushing idly against her knuckles.  

What can he say? It’s true; James has fixated on Q, and Eve is right – there’s a kinship in the way they interact with each other. Perhaps it’s the way Q couches his words: as neither demand nor appeal, and made neither strictly as a colleague nor someone closer than that.

James follows a set of core principles known only to himself. Double-Os are exceptions to the rules; they bend laws and break common human precepts – murder to achieve any end being the chief of them - and to be chained with orders that others are bound to would be to defeat the rationale for them entirely. MI6 does its best to align assignments to each agent but ultimately has to trust the Double-Os to follow through without destroying everything else in the process.

Loyalty, James knows, is the one principle they all have in common. To Queen and country, to M and MI6, to whichever memory or reality that drove them to the position; it’s the voluntary leash they allow themselves to be restrained by.

Q’s statements are things he says as matter of fact, simply placed out there for James to take or to ignore, and hell if James isn’t following them like he’s already established Q as an anchor, a quiet little voice at the back of his mind a rare safeguard against the dark tides of rage and frustration and the occasional sheer apathy and disregard of whether he lives or dies that come from continually engaging the bottommost dregs of humanity. 

As if James hasn’t gone through years of enduring the same pitfalls, as if those statements aren’t pledges that cut both ways.

What a curious puzzle the two of them make.

“You’re miles away in your own head, James.”

When he looks down at Eve, she’s attempting to shuffle papers with her free hand and looking only slightly exasperated at the task.

“My apologies.” James lifts her hand to press a light kiss across the knuckles he’d been brushing his thumb against, and is somewhat surprised that she doesn’t take the opportunity to box his ears.

“It’s a pleasant change from the way you used to jump right into action without a single word to your long-suffering field partner,” Eve says wryly. “I miss those days occasionally, if only for the chance to show you up every once in a while.” Casting a critical eye over the mess of paperwork strewn across her desk, she blows out a quiet sigh. “Well, I can’t work like this, so I might as well get dressed.”  

She quirks an eyebrow at James and leaves her hand in his, a silent – question? No, an offer, James decides, for him to continue his original line of inquiry, if he so wished. He gives her a half-smile, and pulls her up to her feet before letting her hand go. 

“I’ve uncovered enough for today.”

“Really? An agent like you, willing to put off the hunt instead of charging it down?”

“You have a function to attend, and I have a mission later tonight. It’s a conundrum to contemplate during the more boring parts of that assignment. Besides, I’m to hand you safely off to M and I always,” James says with all the conviction but none of the usual seduction in his voice, “give my utmost attention to a beautiful lady when she asks it of me.”

Eve smiles, letting the flirtation ease them back onto familiar and less emotionally-invested ground, and nods towards the coat stand in the corner. “Get my jacket, will you?”

She touches up her makeup with the steady precision of a lady going into battle, keeping her jewellery striking but minimal and exchanging her flats for heels. Her coat is buttery-soft and gorgeously tailored, and James holds it out for her to slide into, smoothing out imaginary fold lines along her shoulders and down the length of her arms as she does up the buttons.

And because James is genuinely fond of her, he says, in a moment of uncharacteristic honesty, "You're always welcomed to join me back out in the field if you require another change of scene, you know."

Eve dimples at him. "I get enough excitement working directly under M. But thank you; I'll keep that in mind."  

She smoothes down her skirt and James doesn't doubt there's a sidearm strapped to her thigh; a field agent might leave the field, but the instincts stay on for life. She catches his eye and grins at him, then slips her hand into the crook of James' elbow.

"Shall we?" He gives a half-bow in her direction, the very picture of gentility, and she laughs.

"Indeed, we shall." 

 

* * *

 

Q's phone is ringing.

It's not Q Branch or Riley's signature ringtone. It's not a call on the emergency line or even the soothing jazz tune automatically assigned to anyone not associated with MI6 on his contact list. No, it's the blandly generic ringtone of a generic call from a generic number, except Q doesn't list his number anywhere, ever.

Q prefers the certainty of conclusions made with supporting evidence, but he places quite a bit of faith in intuition as well.

"Are you dead, dying or in need of backup of any kind?"

"Dead? How would I call you if I'm already dead?"

"You'd find a way," Q says darkly, picking up his mug of tea - if Bond can quip at him, he can't be in too dire a condition. "'Q, you should have created that exploding pen; now I'm an exploded mess all over the sidewalk because the enemy got to me first,' something like that."

The responding silence over the line radiates far too much amusement for Q's peace of mind, and Q resists the urge to duck his head. Good grief, he loses all his professional filters when he's not officially at work. "How did you get this number?" And then, because he should have asked this question first: "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Bond says, and there's the distant pling of glass on a smooth surface. "Well, nothing's wrong yet. Anything can change on a stakeout, however."

Q sets down his mug - again - with a significantly louder clang of ceramic against his glass table.

"No," Q says to the phone. "Absolutely not. I'm off-duty barring emergencies. I know I'm a workaholic but I take my days off seriously so I can continue working ridiculous hours on days I _am_ on-duty without suffering a nervous breakdown."

"Aren't you at all curious how I got your direct number?"

"I can trace it myself. Two minutes, if I need even that."

"But you're off-duty and it’s late in London. It’s easier if I tell you."

Q has to bite his lip to stop the incredulous laugh he feels rising in his chest. Bond is definitely on assignment - he's all smooth charm and low coaxing tones, and Q thinks of the likeliest scenario: pre-dawn, Bond standing by an open window watching everything below him like a dark sentinel, partaking of drinks courtesy of the hotel room's small bar and alone of course, or he'd not risk the call. "I'm not sure I'd describe anything involving you as 'easy', 007."

There's a quiet exhalation over the line, one Q can't read. "Perhaps."

Q contemplates simply hanging up, and eerily, Bond responds to that thought.

"No, you won’t."

"I won’t... what?"

"Curiosity is a powerful motivator. And I have it on good authority that you are both polite and efficient. You'd at least reply before hanging up."

Q taps his fingers lightly against his phone, glancing once at the novel lying face down across the settee, and leans back in his seat, relaxing from the ramrod posture he rose into the moment he picked up his phone. 

"All right," he says. "I'll bite. Tell me how you called my number without going through headquarters."

"Remember how you gave me software to trace signals and connections for this mission of mine."

No, but Q remembers coding something similar and adding it to the list of tools available for Double-O agents. "Yes."

"Well. I used that. Interesting, that you don't create safeguards against your own technology."

Long-term exposure to stimuli leads to acclimatization. It's a worrying thought, because Q feels more annoyance than any real alarm or frustration, although on a list filled with "destruction of equipment via wildlife" and "attempted hacking into unauthorized MI6 accounts" this one doesn't rank too badly at all. But the day Q stops feeling dismayed at Bond blithely destroying parts of his mission kit, Q vows to himself, will be the day he voluntarily checks himself in for psych evaluation.

"I do have stringent safeguards against my own technology. But I only release such programs fully to Double-Os, and I leave enough backdoors open for you agents to contact headquarters or members of Q Branch if the need arises." Q considers modulating his voice, but no - it's late on his day off and he's losing valuable personal time to an incorrigible agent. "If you lose the software, you're more than capable of cleaning up after yourselves."

The words bear a hint of a growl that neatly conveys _and you had better do so_.

"You're taking this much better than I expected," Bond says.

"Am I?"

"You almost bit my head off that time with the tablet. Your security protocols are top-notch; you shouldn't worry about a little hacking." 

The thought is quick and immediate, and Q simply says, "Silva."

There's a long pause, and then— "Yes," Bond agrees. "Silva."

Instead of deadly neutral, Bond's voice had been contemplative, and it suddenly clicks in place, what the questions – the baiting – are about. Q's interpretation is slightly off.  Bond is on assignment, no doubt about that, but for the purposes of this phone call, Q is the mission.

Q smiles, and goes straight for the kill. "You're testing my limits."

"Ah." And Q can almost hear Bond's answering smile in the slight drawl he infuses into his reply. "Not your limits, no."

"But there is a test."

"I'm not sure ‘test’ is the right word. My equipment kit is still intact," he adds, as if that's proper justification for anything.

"You're not supposed to destroy anything as matter of course," Q shoots back. "No deal."

"What can I do to make it up to you?" Bond asks teasingly, but there's a slight distance in his words like his attention has shifted, and Q has listened in on enough of Bond's missions to know he's spotted a clue - not the target, but something peripherally interesting.

"Bring yourself back in one piece, try your best not to break my tools, don't go out in search of gifts in the form of highly encrypted hard drives or laptops, and for goodness sake—" Q lets his voice crack out like a whip "—focus on the mission at hand."

There're the faint clicking noises of Bond checking and loading his guns in the background, now.

"Affirmative." And then, in yet another quick shift of attention, "You're a tough handler, Q."

There's no way Bond can see him, but the smile Q bares is all teeth, anyway. "The very best you'll ever know, 007," he says, and hangs up.

But not before he hears Bond chuckle over the line.

*

Q finds a little box at his workstation four days later, made of pretty folded paper, white designs on shades of ocean blue. He stares down at it in mild consternation before mentally shaking his head – it's as innocuous as anything deliberately left on his desk gets, unless someone has found a way to booby-trap paper constructions.

Someone has taped a tightly coiled slip – reminiscent of a carrier pigeon's message – to the top of the box and Q tugs it free, trapping the rolled up piece of paper between his fingers to read the crisp handwriting.

_Not a hard drive or laptop, as requested. Perhaps you'll see a symbol of wisdom and constant vigilance from afar or the inevitable distillation of a culture's values into a tiny statuette. Personally, I just see a bird that resembles a certain Quartermaster and his nightowl tendencies._

It takes a moment for that to sink in, and then Q feels himself flushing, lifting his hand and letting the slip of paper roll back, his head going up automatically to check his surroundings. Fortunately, it's early enough that the lab is mostly empty, the two staff in the room engrossed in their breakfasts, and Q makes himself set up his laptop, log onto Q-net and clear out his major pending items (miraculously few this morning) before he opens the box.

A little owl charm lies nestled within the paper folds, with white painted feathers and a dark crest, staring out inquisitively with large round eyes that bear a passing resemblance to Q's glasses. Q lifts it up with the ribbon it’s strung onto, letting it settle in his palm; it's a delicate-looking little ceramic charm covered with clear glaze, and boasts a comforting weight despite how small it appears.

 _Bloody big ships and night owls,_ Q thinks as Q Branch staff trickle in for the mid-morning shift, and curls his fingers around the little charm.

 

 

**three**

Q is waist deep in electronic paperwork when Tanner swings by Q Branch one evening, grasping two bottles of beer by their necks between his fingers.

"Evening, Q." Tanner raises an eyebrow at Q’s expression. “Ah, the fiscal year-end rush of administrative paperwork. You really shouldn’t leave it to the last week.”

Q leans back in his seat, cracking his neck back to ease tense muscles. “We’d finished and turned in our documentation. And then Moneypenny forwarded us an entire case of files this week. I can crack a standard encryption code in less than twenty minutes but I cannot make these disappear without creating a bigger problem.”

He normally dumps paperwork on new hires to see how many of them are willing to slog through the tedium day-in and day-out, and advances the ones who begin crafting their own systems to handle the deluge. Q likes the ones who jump ship best, those who glean enough clues and details to craft under-the-table projects while completing their officially assigned work; Q Branch needs innovators and free-thinkers, not blind followers.

But he can’t easily delegate classified documents and if he leaves the paperwork any longer it might grow exponentially overnight, so here Q is, confronting the tedious side of every office job, no matter how unconventional they each might be.

“To be fair, I think Eve went after Accounts with gun in hand after that.” Tanner pops the cap off one bottle and props the other tantalizingly by Q’s laptop.  

"You know I don't drink at headquarters," Q sighs.

"No? More for me, then," Tanner says, and takes a swig from the bottle.

Tanner drinks when he's off-duty or when things have gone so pear-shaped that he needs to take the edge off. In both instances, he looks exactly as he does now: mild, loose-limbed, and the absolute picture of lazy Sunday afternoons.

Of course, statistically Sunday afternoons are particularly eventful for MI6, the time when most terrorists, criminals and troublemakers expect them to be off-guard, so.  

"Bond’s been by recently, hasn't he?"

Q eyes Tanner over his laptop screen. "I can't imagine why he _wouldn't_ be by, considering he's only required to check in with Q Branch both before and after assignments if he wants Q Branch's equipment and continued assistance for his missions."

Tanner reaches out and taps the little owl dangling from the neck of Q’s desk lamp, where he’d hung it in plain view of the entire observation lab.

Q stares evenly back.

“I don’t think you’ve ever kept personal effects at your workstations,” Tanner says, tapping the charm a few times until it’s swinging merrily back and forth on its ribbon, an owl in flight.

“You’re right.” Q clicks idly through some files, watching Tanner from the corner of his eye. The charm is driving some of his staff mad with speculation, which is the reason he’d kept it out here instead of in his office.

Tanner hums quietly under his breath. “So there’s one part of the world that’s particularly famed for its paper craft—“he nods towards the blue-and-white paper box Q’s taken to keeping his personal earpiece in “—and their love of animal figurines, and only one Double-O’s been in that region lately.”

Q blinks once, then turns his attention back to his laptop. Tanner drinks his beer peaceably, and they carry on in silence until the last Q Branch staff member hitches her tote bag over one shoulder ten minutes later, waving at Q with a cheery “don’t work too late, sir!” and one last speculative glance at them as she passes Q’s workstation on her way out.

Q pushes his laptop away, keeping his arms loosely at his side instead of folding them defensively across his chest like he wants to. “All right. Out with it.”

Tanner sets his empty bottle to one side and leans back against Q’s desk. "It's all right to have favourites as long as you don't favour the other agents any less.” He meets Q’s eyes steadily. “The Double-Os deserve any extra attention they can get; I'm not going to crack down on that unless it's destructive."

“Favourites,” Q echoes, because whatever he’d expected Tanner to say, he hadn’t quite expected that. “I—really don’t think that’s the best word to describe it.”

Tanner shrugs. “Whatever you like best. For them—” he inclines his head toward Q, and his wry smile adds _for any of us_ "—lovers leave, friends can become liabilities but colleagues—colleagues watch your back. And equals who don't take shite and who are more than capable of dishing out as good as they get? Invaluable."

"Good god, you're worse than the psychiatrists," Q says, and picks up his mug with both hands instead of going for the unopened bottle of beer Tanner had thoughtfully placed within arm’s reach.

The problem with Tanner is that he very rarely harbours ulterior motives. He is straightforward, steadfast and loyal, and above all he does not easily succumb to the manipulative mindgames all of MI6 delights and thrives in. It's the perfect strategy; everyone develops guards against misdirection and betrayal, but no one really prepares for practical, honest concern. Q has witnessed Tanner gently steamroll a Double-O's most careful machinations time and again - they might spin circles around him on a mission-to-mission basis, but in the long run, Tanner always gets his way.

Q gives himself a minute to mull over Tanner’s words, then pulls his mind back online.

“How do you interact with your favourite, then?” he asks, because that’s the only situation that makes sense, and Tanner grins at him.

"We feed the swans at Regent's Park. I used to do it with family; it helps take my mind off things. My girlfriend is allergic to feathers so I go with Scarlet. She grew up in the countryside."

004 with her knives and perfect disguises; Q imagines her by the lake with swans around her, her raven hair let loose for once, and it’s a lovely image, a slice of normality in the controlled chaos that is the definition of any Double-O’s life.

And there’s Tanner too, who usually handles stress the way waterfowl slick rain off their backs, finding his own measure of calm in the same activity.

“That’s nice,” Q says softly, and it’s not an understatement at all.

“Yes.” Tanner reaches out and gently flicks the owl charm again. “So. Carry on.”

Mildly perturbed, Q lifts his hand into the charm’s swing trajectory to halt its movement. “We’re not like that.”

“All right,” Tanner says easily. “Regardless, carry on.”

Q doesn’t bother answering. Tanner gathers the still-sealed bottle and trashes his empty one, a clear enough signal that that conversation is over, but pauses by Q’s desk instead of leaving.

"One more thing.” Q glances up at him. “I need a new decryption program that can be deployed remotely, preferably from a range of ten to fifteen feet. We have 004 in mind for this assignment."

It’s subtle, but Q feels it – the equilibrium re-established, back to business as usual.

"I knew it,” he says, drawing his laptop nearer. “It’s never just one thing with you. Timeframe?"

"Anything under forty-eight hours would be stellar."

"Get out," Q grouses, mildly irritated. The two day period would be comfortably easy for him—if he didn't have to run a department and deal with backlog paperwork in the mean time. It'll keep him on his toes, his mind occupied, and from the grin Tanner flashes at him, the man had planned for it. "Don't come back unless you bring tea with you next time."

"I'll just send the assignment details to you, then." Tanner says, saluting Q with his beer bottle, and strides out the lab’s glass gates.

Q watches him go, eyes narrowing slightly, before blowing out a sigh and turning back to his laptop.

 

* * *

 

James debriefs with M and stops to peer conspicuously over Tanner's shoulder at the fragments of decrypted data popping up every thirty seconds or so; 004 on her mission, if he recalls correctly. Tanner, in an effort to metaphorically shake James off his back, leans to one side and says:                                                                           

"We both know you'd much rather bother Q, so if I tell you where he is, would you just go?"

And James is sure his expression doesn't change even as he silently commends Tanner for his directness. Mostly he's struck by the challenge, even if Tanner hadn't meant it as one at all: he's more than capable of finding Q himself and turning in the equipment he'd brought back in almost perfect shape, minus a rather crucial portion of his phone. The battery cell and associated circuitry made a rather lovely impromptu starter-spark for his homebrewed explosives.

Some subtle flirting and misappropriation of key cards gives James Q’s general location and access to the lower levels of Q Branch, and he uses a half-remembered journey through identical corridors towards the image diagnostics zone to navigate his way. Multipurpose training rooms, the girl he’d flirted with told him, and once James is in the right area it’s only a matter of finding the right room. His odds are splendid; only one door’s status is lit up in vibrant red – _occupied_ , _do not disturb_.

The key to trespassing in plain sight is to walk in as if he belongs there, and James strides right up to the door. He doesn’t bother looking for cameras – pointless to; Q Branch would never be that obvious – but stops directly in front of the door’s lock, using his body to block most lines of sight. 

The girl, a junior communications officer, will most likely disable her access and attempt to hunt him down once she discovers her missing keycard (because the members of Q Branch are a feisty bunch) and so James goes for the device from his mission’s kit. It’s a Q Branch invention – specifically, a Q-programmed device – so when James connects it to the touch point reader it immediately kicks to life, running a series of algorithms and streaming through facility codes until it hits the one matching the training room’s access control system.

The door blinks from red to green, and slides open with a soft movement of air—

James ducks, instinct moving him, and the heavy wooden staff aimed for his skull glances off his shoulder instead, its wielder pulling back at the last possible second to soften the blow.

The quarterstaff returns immediately, aimed at the back of his knees to sweep his feet out from under him, and James moves with the blow, dropping onto his back in a controlled fall and twisting like a cat, striking out with one leg instead of going for his gun.

Q blocks his kick with a downward thrust of the staff, and James uses the burst of momentum to roll to his feet.

"007. You really need to stop using your mission equipment to override my systems."

James pauses, considering, and takes a long step backward, just out of range. When Q keeps his position instead of following, dropping back into guard position, James makes a wide circuit around him, watching Q like he's discovered a treasure: something intriguing, something new. And if James is being honest with himself, he has - he's never seen Q like this, one foot placed forward the way a swordsman would, the quarterstaff held comfortably, right hand low on the staff and the left a foot and a half above it. He watches James watch him, a tight, fierce smile practically daring James to step even an inch within his staff's considerable reach.

It’s not reckless if the person constantly schooling him to caution challenges him to do it.

James grabs for the staff and swings to the side, leg snapping out and upward, aiming for the knee joint or the curve of Q’s waist, above the hips and below the protection of his ribs, dodging when Q pulls back and flicks the staff up, moving through the air with deceptive lightness.

They draw back and circle each other. With staff in hand, easily six feet in length, Q has the advantage of reach and power and he doesn’t cling to any misguided notions of sportsmanship or nobility. Using the grip of his forehand as a fulcrum, he swipes the staff toward James’ blind spots, coming at him at angles, attacking and using the span of the staff to protect himself at the same time. James watches Q’s feet while tracking the end of that deadly staff with his peripheral vision, moving warily away each time it comes too close. Blunt force trauma is a terrible way to go, and the best James can do is to take occasional glancing raps without letting Q ever land a solid blow, and evades, sidesteps and ducks, forcing Q to keep in constant motion or risk James coming under his guard.

James is not a fighter. He’s not a brawler or a scrapper or any of the traditional terms used to describe a person who fights with his body alone – he is, above all, a survivalist, and so he draws his gun after all, swiping a probing thumb across the safety and wrapping his hand in reverse around the handle, and catches Q’s downward blow across the flat of the gun. 

The crash of heavy wood against metal echoes off the walls. Q’s eyes flash with barely suppressed irritation, and James spares a moment to smile beatifically at him before smashing the butt of the gun against Q’s head.

It slams into the quarterstaff instead, and this time James throws a punch over it with his off-hand.

Q reels back, staff snapping automatically upward in defence, and James is so busy watching the weapon that he takes the kick solidly in the stomach.

James twists out of range, listening for any indication that Q might press the attack but hears nothing of the kind – just heavier than normal breathing and his own blood thrumming in his ears. When he looks over, Q has backed across the room, lifting one arm to brush the back of his wrist over his cheek. It was a decent punch, made from an awkward angle as it was, and fairly due; Q completes all his strikes despite pulling back just enough to avoid grievous injury, and James knows he’ll be spotting bruises in an hour or two.

Q's eyes are very dark and too wide under his glasses - and that's an impracticality, a clearly advertised weak point - pupils blown with adrenaline and curls plastered to his skin with sweat and James is suddenly struck by just how _young_ the quartermaster truly is.

But not inexperienced, and certainly not incompetent. Not even at this, so seemingly far out from Q's usual arena - Q wields the staff with ease, his body loose and fluid and James wants to take him through his paces, wants to put Q through a senior field agent’s obstacle course to see what else the man is hiding up his sleeves, to study how he compensates for his weaknesses. Q is not a field agent but James doesn’t doubt he’d be very, very good at disabling the obstructions set before him, that brilliant mind ever his greatest asset. 

“Status, Bond,” Q suddenly says, and James catches his eyes, their gazes locking; there’s a snap of command in Q’s voice, a tone pitched to draw attention and one agents are practically conditioned to listen to, except this time it’s accompanied by a lightning quick thrust of the staff aimed at James’ solar plexus.

James twists just enough to let the staff swipe by, dropping the gun, then grabs the length of wood with both hands and wrenches it back, sacrificing momentum and the brief opening that presents itself when Q overextends, pulled forward by James’ unexpected move. Q makes a quiet noise but holds out tight, planting his feet, narrowing his eyes.

Just another second and they’ll burst into a flurry of movement. They’re in each other’s guard, right in each other’s personal space, in reach of knees and elbows. One of them is going to let go of the staff, one of them will press the advantage; James is faster and fitter but Q far more experienced with fighting with a staff, and he doesn’t back down, doesn’t lift his chin, still watching James with his head just barely tilted to the side, a gesture James has seen several times and that he’s becoming quite fond of.

The insistent ringing of Q’s phone shatters the moment.

James’ attention doesn’t flicker and Q resists the impulse to glance at his phone – his head turns but his eyes remain locked with James’. The phone rings on, a cadence halfway between swift and explosive, and James arcs a questioning eyebrow at Q.

Q ducks under the staff, falling back into his usual pace instead of the careful, calculated tread of a combatant. His posture straightens as he answers the phone, now the quartermaster and head of his division, and James plants the end of the staff against the floor, staring at the back of Q’s head, sweat-damped curls just touching the collar of his button down shirt where it falls away from his neck.

“It’s fine,” Q says to the person on the line. “Stand down.” A pause, then, dryly, “yes, I realize that; I’ll handle it.” He snaps his phone shut and crosses the room yet again to tap at a key panel, disabling a quietly flashing light.

“Trouble?”

Running a hand through his hair and rucking it up even more, Q shakes his head. “My team detected an unauthorized entry and I didn’t answer the visual alarm they triggered. They wanted to make sure you weren’t—” he eyes James “—sneaking into our systems and causing the typical mayhem that Double-Os are famed for. Or ambushing me, since all of headquarters now knows you pursue both sexes.” His exasperation is bleeding through his calm tone by the last sentence.

James can’t stop smirking.  

"A quarterstaff for our quartermaster," he says. "You didn't plan this, did you?"

"I learned staff-fighting long before I ever had aspirations of working at MI6, if that's what you mean." Q holds out a hand, a silent command for James to return his staff, and James glances at it – there are ghosts of calluses on Q’s palm and the curve between thumb and index finger, now chaffed red.

“I’ll trade you,” James says, scooping up his gun and dropping it in Q’s hand.

Q’s fingers close automatically around the weapon and he makes a low noise in his throat, like he’d like to cuss James out and just barely manages to choke it back. He’s already taking the gun apart – slower than a field agent, although his movements are sure – but James knows the gun’s out of commission; it spots a visible dent across the barrel and the balance of it was off when he picked it up, and Q barely has the gun in two pieces when he gives up.  

“You,” he says, and stops there. He stares at James unblinkingly for a moment, then sighs. “At least _you’re_ in one piece.” His tone of voice suggests that he doesn’t consider this a particularly fair trade.

James knows better, though.

"You could have split my skull open, with that first blow. And to think you'd gone through such pains to preserve it mere weeks ago."

"The override code my senior team uses will make a distinctive chime. Your entry was silent."

Grasping the middle of the staff, James spins it tip over tip, curving it in graceful figure eights around him. The hardwood is smooth, well oiled and perfectly balanced, and it makes a quiet, whistling sound as it parts the air. Q watches him, fiddling idly with the edge of one rolled-up sleeve with the hand that isn’t clutching his phone. He wants the staff back badly, if the way his eyes track its progression in James’ hands is any indication, and the weapon is certainly personal – a little slice of the life Q lives behind his title.

James catches the staff in one hand. “It’s been a while since you’ve trained with this.”

“It’s been a while, yes.” Q goes quiet. It’s a quality James appreciates. Too often people feel the need to fill up silences, to fill the air with chatter as if to prove their existence or worth or presence and never realizing how much it distracts, how it scatters their own thoughts and reveals far, far too much of the secrets they should hold as close as the gun that guards their lives. The best agents learn to work with the nuances of silence; some prefer to court it, even.

Of course, to know silence is to know how to manipulate it, to turn it on its head, and Q knows how to do that too.

"The field agents don't know what to make of me; they're never quite sure how to deal with Q Branch staff, much less the division's head. Q Branch staff worry they'll be down one quartermaster if they knock me out and they never quite go all out. And the MI6 trainers will indulge me, but they're busy enough as it is with the trainees and the active agents. I rather work through the forms myself, here in my own domain.”

He moves forward fluidly, not confrontational, just a steady, unhurried stride. “You’re curious, of course. Why practice such an archaic fighting form when we have some of England’s most advanced weapons?” Stepping right into James’ personal space, Q takes a light grip on the staff, above and below James' hand. “It’s because I was never quite the conventional type, even as a teen. I don’t have much free time, but I’ve had enough of paperwork and I needed to clear my mind; I can’t program software or write codes all the time.” He pulls back slightly, not quite enough to jerk the staff from James’ grasp but just enough that he feels the pressure.

James looks down at him, and lets go. Q steps back, one hand sliding down the staff in an absentminded check. Pushing his hair from his forehead, he glances over at James. “And this is ash wood.”  

James is used to staying cool and collected, and so he only turns fully to face Q, to better study the other man.

Q’s last, almost throwaway statement would be unimportant to anyone else. It should have been the same for James, but it isn’t. Q gives his agents his respect and the surety of his support; he gives James more than that, promises that go beyond his duty but still fall within their job scopes. But this, something Q volunteers of his own volition – it’s a tiny detail that has no bearing on James, or the missions, or even MI6 for that matter, and that makes it almost intimate, that James now knows that Q’s staff is made from ash.

“Bond,” Q says, and James flicks his eyes up to meet Q’s gaze, “Why did you break into Q Branch and my training room?”

James ignores the question entirely, still studying Q’s form, the way he keeps hold of the staff and the way his stance shifts almost imperceptibly with it in hand. He notes Q’s clothing, still in his normal attire but sans the cardigan; he hadn’t bothered to change or perhaps he didn’t have anything at Q Branch to change into. He hadn’t intended to work with the staff for so long a session but must have forgotten himself. James remembers the ghosts of calluses on Q’s palms.

“Bond, pay atten—”

"Any time you want to spar, I'll partner you."

“—what?”

“You don’t get the opportunity much – since you became Quartermaster, I'd think. And you lack a proper sparring partner.” James straightens his suit jacket, throwing Q a pointed look.

Q’s glasses are slightly smudged, and although he keeps his expression neutral his eyes are sharp behind the lenses. "Any time I want to beat the living daylights out of you, then."

"I'm sure I can improvise enough tricks and dodges to spice up your routine," James says dryly. "Freeform fighting - I use anything in a specified location against you and your staff. It beats running the training circuits time and again."

The fingers of one of Q’s hands tap restlessly against smooth wood.

“Is this another… not-test?”

 _Not-test._ James remembers what he said: _I’m not sure ‘test’ is the right word._ Interesting, that Q doesn’t ask what it is.

“You could say that.” James lets his arms settle loosely by his sides, his posture almost relaxed.

“That’s—” Q tilts his head away, then looks back at James. “That would be nice, actually,” he says, and his sudden smile is unbidden, a pure expression of anticipation and pleasure. It fades in the next moment, falling back on his generic, professional smiles, but it lingers in the corners of his eyes, the way his fingers no longer drum restlessly. “You do realize you’ll be giving up some of your time off-mission to do this. And no,” he adds, “I won't spar with you if Medical hasn’t cleared you.”

James arcs an eyebrow. “You’re skilled with the staff, and learning how to fight against specific weapons will only help in the long run. Careful, Q. You’ve just given a Double-O liberty to engage you. I plan to take full advantage of it.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Q says, like he has never thought otherwise.

This time, it’s James who has to smooth back a grin of his own.   

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who has been expressing their love for the slow, developing relationship. They really are taking their time, but I promise - they'll get there. Eventually :)


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